


Flash Fics 1-5

by TronKon



Series: Flash Fiction [1]
Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TronKon/pseuds/TronKon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fics woven together into a larger story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash Fics 1-5

**1\. Suitably warm.**

 

Tim did not want to open his eyes. He knew he wasn’t in his bed, or draped over his computer chair, the two places he fell asleep most often. When he shifted he heard and felt the creak of old leather, and he smelled the dry paper smell of books.

 

One of the studies then.

 

But he was- well he was _comfortable_. It took a few moments to recognize the source and reason without opening his eyes, but the reason was that he was, well- _warm_. It was that perfect warmth that is neither too stifling nor too tropical. It was the kind of perfect shell of warmth that really only ever happened by accident on waking. It couldn’t be planned.

 

Tim’s fingers brushed over a soft tuft of _something_ near his face- _fur?_ Upon closer exploration he realized that he had been carefully covered with a fox fur stole.   
  
Alfred had obviously been by to check on him. It wouldn’t have been the first time, really.  
  
He sighed, burrowing deeper into his pocket of warmth.   
  
He could stay. For a few more minutes at least.

 

 

**2\. Candy Apple Red**

 

Being sick was an annoyance.   
  
It was an inconvenience.   
  
Tim dealt with details that didn’t go according to his plans every day. Big things, small things. He had gotten rather good at ignoring what wasn’t immediately emergent.   
  
The tickle in the back of his throat had been persistent for days, but it had just been a tickle. Tim would massage his larynx thoughtfully with two fingers when it threatened to become a cough, and then summarily go back to ignoring it.

 

However, sometime between last night and his four hours of sleep that took him to the morning, the issue of the tickle had become a cough while he wasn’t looking. A cough that rudely presented itself in the training room below the manor.

 

A cough that earned him a scathing look and sniff of disapproval from the little demon that Dick was currently trying to rehabilitate into a human being.

 

Tim had ignored Damian as best he could, even though he could feel the younger boy’s eyes on him all through his katas, scrutinizing for any muscle shake or weakness at all. Tim didn’t give him the satisfaction.

 

But when he went upstairs to shower before patrol, he noticed an apothecary bottle on the stand by his bed, filled with a thick, candy apple red syrup and a small instructional card that was brittle and yellow, words written in looping, graceful letters.   
  
Cough syrup.   
  
Tim did not trust this cough syrup. It looked like it had been plucked from 1886 and placed in his room by someone wishing him intense harm.

 

Probably Damian.

 

Casting an untrusting look at the bottle, Tim turned away, leaving it untouched and went to have his shower.

 

And when he came back, it was still there.

 

 

**3\. I didn’t go there**

 

Damian was irate.

 

Taking care of Drake seemed to be a full time job in and of itself.

 

Most of the time, Drake ignored all efforts Damian took to herd him in the proper direction in terms of sleeping habits and health in general, but Damian had discovered, quite by accident after Drake contracted what was most probably a lethal virus that presented as a cold, that if Drake was under the impression that, for example, Pennyworth had noticed he was unwell and was taking steps to rectify the situation, Drake was more likely to take the recommended course of action.

 

It seemed like Drake was more interested in soothing the feelings and concerns of others than in actually committing a healthy body and mind to the mission.

 

It was ignoble.

 

But, since Damian could not get rid of him, the least he could do was mold him into something that was actually of use to him.

Which brought Damian back to why he was angry.

 

Drake was a full time job, but on occasion, such as the occasions when the idiot chose to consult or assist on Titans related matters- on those occasions Damian had a small break, in which he could relax. Certainly that team was idiotic, but Superboy, as much of an idiot as he was- tended to keep a sharper eye on Drake then most, so when Drake was in their company, Damian knew that he could go about his business without worry.

 

Except now that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

 

Drake had returned from what he’d casually referenced as a simple consultation with the team of superpowered children with a broken arm and a plethora of bruises around his face and neck.

 

And Superboy- he’d delivered Drake to the manor with the stupidest hang-dog expression that Damian had ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

 

The kryptonian had set back Damian’s work _months._ Now, Damian not only had to assure that Drake was taking care of his basic health, but he also had to go out of his way to make certain that Drake let his arm heal properly and without incident.

 

And all without letting Drake know that it was he who was orchestrating it.

 

Damian was going to _have to_ accompany Drake on all his Titans visits in the future.

 

This absolutely could not stand.

 

  
**4\. Why Didn’t it Happen to Me?**

 

Tim was going crazy. Certifiably insane.

 

Bruce had kept him locked down in the cave for _weeks_ just because he’d broken his arm on a mission with the Titans.

 

It wasn’t the end of the world, it was a _broken arm._ Tim could easily splint it on patrols and be just as useful.

 

But no.   
  
He was stuck as Oracle back-up.

 

He was _stuck_ checking system alerts, hits on criminal activities all around the city- helping Barbara watch traffic cams and bank cams- basically, he was stuck _sitting_ for the better part of the evening. Considering he was used to a considerable amount of exercise most every evening, what with the grappling and leaping and kicking the crap out of petty thugs- this down time was not doing him any good in the mental or physical health department.  
  
Regardless of the fact that he kept up on his daily training, the nights were when Tim usually came _alive._

 

But now, three cups of emptied tea and various foil packages of snack food littered the console most every night, and Tim knew it was bad. And Dick, well Dick was an enabler. He brought the foil packets. And Alfred brought the tea.

 

The _both_ of them. _Enablers._

 

Tim broke the corner off a cellophane wrapped brownie and popped it in his mouth. It wasn’t even very _good_. But Dick had brought it.

 

Sinking into the deep leather chair, Tim glared at the monitors, and caught a flash of canary yellow scrambling up the old National Bank building on Fifth.

 

Scowling, Tim broke off a larger chunk and stuffed it into his cheek, holding it there and letting the flavour of cheap boxed snack cakes flood his mouth.  
  
That should have been him scrambling up that building and grappling to the fire escape adjacent.  
  
Tim turned his glare to his arm- slung tight against his chest. He brushed off a few crumbs from his sweater and turned his attention back to the monitors.  
  
Damian had swung down and was now methodically taking out a few low level dealers who’d been tucked into a nearby alleyway.  
  
Yeah.   
  
That definitely should have been Tim.  
  
He _had_ to find a way to get back out on the field.  
  
 _Soon._

 

**5\. Shreds of Doubt**

 

Damian had been certain he’d been doing the right thing in regards to Drake.

 

If he’d been let back out on the streets in his condition, no doubt he would worsen it. Possibly rebreak the bone and delay healing time.

 

So he’d orchestrated a complicated coup by way of mentions to Grayson about Drake’s penchant for making things worse in such a way that he simply appeared inconvenienced, but Grayson would become concerned.

 

And like every time Grayson was notably concerned, he’d talked to Damian’s father. Who was the only one capable of telling Drake to do something and have him actually do it.

 

But now, each time Damian returned to the cave, Drake was in a more and more pathetic state.

 

Just last week, Damian had caught sight of an offensively orange coloured foil bag with some sort of african cat printed on the cover, and trails of cheese dust across the keys of the bat computer.

 

Watching Drake become this horrendously pathetic almost made Damian miss the Drake before house arrest. At least _that_ Drake had some self respect, even if he was frequently wrong. And weak. And annoying.

 

Still, Damian’s intent had not been to break Drake further.

 

Scowling to himself as he entered the cave after another flawless patrol, he glanced at Drake, huddled under some sort of home crocheted blanket with the evidence of his new, _disgusting_ habit littered about him. Grayson’s fault of course.  
  
Shaking his head with a snort of derision, Damian headed towards the showers to strip off.  
  
Ultimately, it was obvious.   
  
He had to rework his strategy, and rectify his mistake.  
  
Next time, he wouldn’t be so quick to hand off his work to Grayson. The man obviously couldn’t be trusted not to botch it.

**Author's Note:**

> Just what I do when I need to warm up or can't write anything that borders on intelligence. Will be updated but with absolutely no regularity whatsoever.


End file.
